


Saturdays.

by misschevalier



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Multi, Unpopular Pairing July
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misschevalier/pseuds/misschevalier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Ryan, every Saturday was different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturdays.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s unpopular pairing July! Hurray! I wanted to write about this pairing because of lovely [scrubtopia’s art](http://scrubtopia.tumblr.com/post/91295597899/rare-trio-maybe-i-dunno-i-just-wanted-to-draw) and a prompt about how Saturdays _felt like_ , so, I wrote it around senses.

For Ryan, every Saturday was different.

 

Maybe it was because sometimes Saturdays meant bacon and eggs, with salty kisses and the soft touch of Michael’s cold fingers early in the morning, but sometimes Saturdays meant pancakes and syrup, with the softest and sweetest kisses on the world, and the feeling of Geoff’s mouth on his skin, leaving marks that would change into shades of red and blue.

Sometimes Saturdays meant the sound of muffled moans coming out of his mouth because, fuck, Geoff’s hands wrapped around his dick and moving terribly slowly, and with Michael’s rough kisses, it was impossible for him to not whimper their names. Also, Saturdays meant touches and fingers, saliva and wet marks on the skin, followed by fierce hands leaving marks on his hips, holding him steady.

Sometimes Saturdays meant sitting outside and feeling the sun’s heat on their skin, hearing Geoff whistling happily with a beer on his hand and the smell of meat and grilled vegetables hitting Michael’s and Ryan’s noses. Sometimes Saturdays meant parties and the sound of various voices and laughs filling the environment, and in the background, the tree’s leaves hitting each other because of the wind, and the smell of delicious food along with the strong alcohol.

 

Saturdays meant, in time to time, work; typing and clicking, along with the sounds of people screaming coming out from the editor’s headphones, the smell of coffee and bright screens that illuminated the room. For Ryan sometimes it meant that Michael would come by and sit on his lap, his warm mouth against Ryan’s cold skin, doing his best to distract the older. Also, it meant Geoff pulling Ryan out of the chair and punished him, rough bites and moans filled with lust, begging at him to stop or to give him more; it meant Ryan coming back with shaking knees and shivers that shook him completely.

 

Saturdays mostly meant staying in bed until pass noon, with the feeling of skin against skin, mouth to mouth, sharing words that had significance to them; Ryan knew that Michael liked the feeling of Geoff’s fingers on his back, connecting the dots carefully as if he was an astronomer tracing constellations in the middle of the night. Ryan couldn’t do much more but stare, seeing how the room was filled with the sun on his highest point, the Texas warm hitting them slowly and making them shuffle on the bed.

 

Saturdays meant, when they weren’t in their best shape, screams and yells of discussions without actual meaning or purpose, hurtful words being thrown and the feeling of those crawling into their skins, leaving invisible marks. Sometimes it meant salty tears falling on their cheeks, sometimes it mean veins popping out and sometimes meant knuckles that were white because of all the pressure on them, but most of the times meant leaving. (Wooden doors closing way too hard, the sound of keys and a car’s engine in the driveway, the bad taste in the mouth for all the swearing and screaming; that’s how leaving felt.)

 

Neither of them wanted to change the meaning of Saturdays, but for once, Saturdays meant awkward silences and missing the feeling of someone else’s warmth on the bed. For Geoff, it meant sleeping on the couch, curled on a soft blanket, the plastic of the controller on his hands. For Michael, in the other hand, meant sleeping on the big bed all by himself, the sheets being too cold for his likeness and the darkness consuming him like nobody’s business.

For Ryan, it meant saying good night to Jack and leaving to the guest room, the feeling of the carpeted floor under his bare feet. It meant curling up in a bed that was way too small compared to their usual bed- the cold but warm bed where they used to sleep, where they shared touches and words, where they made love. Ryan hid his face on the cold pillow and fell into an uneasy sleep.

 

Saturday meant important calls. Michael was woken up by his phone ringing loudly on the main room, begging to be answered. At first, Michael felt too sad and tired to move his body, but it was the little screen flashing that made him pick up the phone.

“Yeah?” Michael cleared his throat and he listened at the voice at the other end. “Yes, I’m Michael Jones.” He sat down and felt as if he room was ten times colder than supposed to, and his mouth had this bad taste that he didn’t knew if it was psychological or if it was real. “Yes. I’ll be there in a few. Thank you.”

It wasn’t a few minutes later that he found himself standing on the living room, his cold and trembling hands on Geoff’s shoulder, shaking the older man to wake him up. Geoff looked up and saw Michael’s expression, his face paler than normal. “What’s wrong?”

Those were the first words that Geoff had directed to him without them being hurtful but actually full with worry and sentiment. Michael didn’t know if he should cry about that or about the call. “Ryan’s in the hospital.”

For them, Saturday mornings meant driving a few miles to see Ryan (friend? Still boyfriend? Ex?) with one hand on Michael’s knee, and Michael’s hand holding Geoff’s strongly, as if he feared that the other man was going to disappear.

 

For a while, Saturdays meant the smell of medicine and antiseptic, the bright and brilliant white and beige and blue walls around the halls, the big and scary double doors, and the sound of stretchers and wheelchairs around the hospital. For Michael and Geoff, it also meant looking at Ryan’s intense blue and purple and green and yellow bruises all over his arms (and probably his chest), and also the neat, white bandages wrapped around him.

For them, it also meant fear. Fear of not seeing those stunning blue eyes, the fear of not hearing his laugh and voice, the fear of not feeling his harsh fingers or his soft skin, the fear of losing him. For Michael and Geoff, that Saturday meant the chance of seeing Ryan’s blue eyes, once again, and for Ryan, that Saturday meant feeling groggy and tired but he felt ten times better after hearing Geoff’s relieved laugh and feeling Michael’s hand wrapped around his own.

 

For them, Saturdays meant staying in home, pressed against Michael and Geoff, their arms wrapped around Ryan’s waist, faces pressed on the man’s neck. They would mutter soft apologies and words that were filled with love, kisses that were gentle enough to make them shiver because, god, they missed that. Michael and Geoff had their fingers tangled with each other’s, sometimes having a small talk that Ryan barely understood before he went back to sleep.

 

For Ryan, every Saturday was different, and nothing made him happy that sharing his Saturdays with Michael and Geoff.

 


End file.
